


Wind rushing.

by rafesthighs



Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: Choking, M/M, Night Terrors, Vomit, character death but not really dont worry no one actually dies lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:48:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24366820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rafesthighs/pseuds/rafesthighs
Summary: Suddenly one of the hands that had been grasping so desperately before came up and touched his face. The light brush to his cheek. His eyes widened as he glanced over at the appendage, before looking back down at Samuel. His eyes were closed, but he looked peaceful. He looked almost as if he was asleep.
Relationships: Rafe Adler/Samuel Drake
Comments: 4
Kudos: 50





	Wind rushing.

**Author's Note:**

> I know I still need to update Rescue Me, but I wanted to write a little one shot haha. As always, I'm the only one who edits these so please be kind to any mistakes. I don't care to hear comments if you think anything is ooc either, so please keep those to yourself! I appreciate all of you.

He felt the light slap to his arm more than he saw it. It was more of a patting, but it quickly grew in fever -- becoming more of a hit than an attempt to gain attention. It continued, but he still didn’t let go. The warmth under his hands was comforting, it finally made that loud roar in his head be quiet and there was a new voice that came up behind it that told him to hold tighter. Squeeze tighter. Feel the flesh under his palms, between his fingers.

So he did.

Rafe felt like something was off. Everything felt foggy, he felt foggy -- his head felt like a bad painting looked. Muddled. But this was helping, it had to be helping -- otherwise why was he doing it? Why was he sitting here (  _ Was he sitting? He thought he was standing. ) _ with his hands around another's throat. There had to be a good reason for it. There had to be.

His arms were strong as he squeezed tighter than before, knuckles going white. The slapping to his arms changed to a grip instead. Holding at his wrists, trying to wretch him off -- but he didn’t stop. He didn’t stop. He stared without seeing down at the faceless mass beneath him. Why couldn’t he see their face? He felt the slaps, he heard the soft gasps -- but he didn’t know who it was. Who was underneath him, choking and gasping for air that Rafe seemed to have no intention to give. But the roaring stopped. The voice was happy. The fog persisted, so he saw no reason to stop.

“Rafe --” there was finally a voice, a true voice, calling out to him from below. The voice was --  _ Sam _ ? He was shocked, but for some reason he didn’t let go. He should have let go, but the fog wasn’t clearing. It was getting denser, and suddenly the roar was back in his head -- louder than ever. 

_ Screaming _ .

“R-Rafe, st--” He knew the voice, Sam’s voice, was begging him to stop. As quickly as the fog came, it was dispersing. And he saw him. He saw Samuel, underneath him. His face was pained, he was turning colors Rafe had never seen him turn before. Those strong hands that he knew too well were the ones clasped at his wrist. Struggling. 

“No,” Rafe found himself saying. He didn’t know why, he felt almost as if he didn’t speak. And for some reason, he was watching his own face. His eyes looked dead, they looked disgusted as they stared down at the older man beneath him. His fingers flexed as he held tighter. Nails biting into flesh. Rough flesh that his lips had graced more than once before. Rough flesh that he knew too well, and was now breaking. But why? The loud noise in his head was louder than ever, screaming and violent like wind on a rickety porch.

“Pl----” he didn’t know why Samuel was trying to speak. He was helping him, wasn’t he? He was helping him. He had to be, otherwise -- why was he doing this? It had to be for the best. “ _ Please _ .”

Suddenly one of the hands that had been grasping so desperately before came up and touched his face. The light brush to his cheek. His eyes widened as he glanced over at the appendage, before looking back down at Samuel. His eyes were closed, but he looked peaceful. He looked almost as if he was asleep. The hand that had touched his face dropped down to the ground.

“Sam?” Rafe whispered. His grip lightened. It was silent. The roar had stopped. There was no wind, no voice, nothing. “Samuel?” 

His heart raced in his chest, but he didn’t hear the sound in his ears. He heard nothing. Reaching up with one of the offending hands -- it suddenly hit him that the scars on his arms were gone. He looked down over in horror, before looking back down at Sam. His head had dropped to the side, and he could see those horrible marks on his neck. Marks that matched Rafe’s fingers like a glove. Marks that those fingers had made. 

“Samuel?” his voice shook and his throat felt tighter and tighter every moment. He was hesitant to touch him again. Would he cause more marks? Where were his scars? Everything felt strange, it felt different. 

Perhaps this was a dream, but wasn’t it said that as soon as you realized something was a dream you’d wake up? Or take control? He touched Sam’s face. It was hot. It wasn’t cold, but it didn’t feel normal either. It felt like flames. Gently tracing his finger over the scruff of a beard that was ever present on his face, he tried to ignore how hot it felt. It was slowly growing hotter and hotter. It truly felt like flames licking his skin.

Rafe coughed and looked around. Suddenly -- the fog was back. But it wasn’t fog this time. It was smoke. Smoke, and fire. Just like  _ before _ . Just like the ship. He looked back down, and Samuel was still beneath him. The scars were back on Rafe’s arms, but instead of being healed and controlled they were fresh and wild. Angry terrible marks, new. 

“No --” he whispered, staring down at his arms. “No, no -- Samuel, Samuel -- wake up,” he begged. Rafe reached down to touch his face again, but instead moved the direction of his path to grab his shoulders. The grip was strong as he shook him. Soft droplets of red fell down upon Sam’s face, and Rafe realized they were coming from his own head. He was bleeding. In the same spot as the scar on his hairline. The same spot as the scar he got from the ship. Just like his arms. They were fresh.

Had all that before actually been a dream, and he had just woken up? He was panicking. His heart hammering faster, and now he could hear it. Loud, just like the wind before, in his ears. 

Samuel was dead, he realized that now. He wasn’t asleep.

But that wasn’t right -- that wasn’t right. Samuel was meant to be asleep. He wasn’t meant to be dead. They weren’t meant to be on the ship, looking for the treasure again. That was two years ago. That was two years ago, and Samule hadn’t died there. Rafe hadn’t killed him there.

It struck him all at once.

The marks on Samuel’s neck, the smell of smoke, the wind rushing in his ear with his heartbeat.

He killed Samuel.

He killed him, he held his neck and gripped tighter and tighter until he had no air left inside him. Rafe had killed him, and now his body was lying beneath him on the floor of the ship. 

“Sam,” his voice cracked as he shook his shoulders a bit harder. “Sam -- wake up,” he begged in a voice that didn’t sound like his own. Foriegn and strange, wrong and broken as tears joined the red droplets. He begged. He begged and pleaded and shook him a bit harder. Rafe leaned forward slightly, more of a slump really. 

“Please. . .” he choked out, face a wreck as it came closer to Samuel’s. He was about to press his lips against his forehead when suddenly he felt something strike him. It was hot, it burned. Pulling back and looking down, he saw the blade in his stomach in that familiar place as before. 

Sam was holding the other end of the blade. His eyes were open, the marks were gone. Instead there was a beam laying atop of him and Rafe was standing slightly to the side with the pirate blade having run him through. There was no remorse in Sam’s eyes as he stared at him. 

As soon as Rafe’s body hit the floor, his eyes opened in the small bedroom. His body was flushed and damp, ruined with sweat. Eyes darting around as he tried to gain his bearings and figure out where he was -- and what had just happened. 

A dream.

It had been a dream. He had a vague memory of realizing it was a dream, but he couldn’t cling to it. Everything felt wrong. His heart hammered in his chest, and somewhere in the room he heard the soft click of the clock on the wall ticking. There was another sound too. A snore, to his left. Rafe turned his head slightly and saw him. 

There he was, Samuel, eyes closed and mouth slightly opened. There was a spot of drool on the bed sheet from where his head had escaped from the pillow it had rested on, instead deciding to give himself neck pain with the uncomfortable position. His arm was draped over Rafe’s middle, fingers lax at his side. His eyes were closed and they looked so comfortable -- if it wasn’t for the soft snore rolling out of him, Rafe would have checked to see if he was breathing. 

His face looked too familiar to that of his dream. To the face of the dead man he had killed --

Rafe was standing. Slowly removing himself from the arm around him, he grasped blindly for his cane at the side of the bed. No use in trying to put on his prosthetic leg now, not for this. It was too difficult to put on alone when he was feeling unwell, and right now he had one destination. The bathroom. Climbing out of the bed, the soft thump of his ruined foot and cane was a perfect match for the ticking of the clock. 

He barely remembered getting in the bathroom. The chair that sat near the sink was suddenly occupied by him, and the sink was on. Rafe should have gone for the toilet, something he realized the moment the sickness sprung up in his throat and emptied into the sink before him. The retching lasted only a moment or two, but it was enough to get hot tears springing up from his eyes. He cracked on the faucet, suddenly thankful that the two of them had nothing for dinner that night after the large lunch they had earlier. He remembered that. He was trying to cling to memories to wash away the dream. Good memories. The smell of the meat Sam cooked on the grill was still in his nose. He wanted that in his head, not the stink of old wood burning on the ocean. 

Rafe hadn’t experienced a terror like the dream for many months now. He remembered the last dream he had, where he was sinking and no one was there to grab him. There was no Shoreline to pull him out like there was in the true reality, instead all there was -- was flames, ruined treasure and his own hubris. 

Watching the last of the bile slip down the sink, Rafe reached out with shaking hands in order to collect some of the water in his palms. He lifted the liquid to his lips, took a sip and spit back into the sink. A few more times until the taste was gone. Eyes watching the sight of the scars on his arms, he suddenly looked them over like he had in the dream. 

He didn’t remember getting the marks. He remembered the time on the ship well, Samuel laying beneath the beam -- Nathan and his sword, Rafe and his  _ pride _ . But he didn’t remember what happened after Natahan cut the rope. After the treasure fell and missed his head, landing on his legs. Taking one of them with it in the aftermath and ruining his other. The scars from the flames on his arms and upper body were a constant reminder of what happened. A constant reminder that he’d be plagued by these dreams, these memories -- real or not -- for the rest of his life. 

There was a flash of Samuel’s corpse in his head again and Rafe splashed water on his face. The cold liquid stung, but it felt refreshing against his hot skin. He felt like he was on fire, hot sweat dripping down. His hair was soaked, the shirt he had fallen asleep in clung to him. Rafe felt like he was overheating. He knew he should call for Samuel, the man was always good at calming him down, but he couldn’t bring himself to. He couldn’t bring himself to call Samuel’s voice out of him. The same voice that moments before in his dream had begged him to stop, to  _ stop _ . 

Rafe leaned forward and stuck his head in the sink. The rush of the faucet over his scalp felt perfect, cold and biting. Eyes closed he braced either side of the porcelain bowl, breathing in through his open mouth around the water that rushed about him. He wondered if he should get up and turn the shower on instead, but he couldn’t move. He just sat there, in his chair, with his head in the sink. Feeling the water. Losing himself in the water. The sound of it, the smell of it crawling up his nose -- the sting in his eyes. His shoulders shook as he sucked some of the water in, choking on the taste of it but feeling like it was retribution for what he had done in his dream.

He had killed Samuel, he had choked him until he died, so why shouldn’t he suffer a little? It was only a dream, of course -- but that changed nothing that the thought was still in his head. Sam would tell him he was  _ sick _ , that he was still healing. But Rafe never felt more sick than in the moments where the thought of hurting Samuel came back. He never felt more like that man he was for  _ months _ than when he remembered all he had done to him. All the pain he had caused the Drake out of heartbreak, loss, pride and  _ anger _ . 

Gagging on the water, he heard nothing other than the gentle sound of it before there was suddenly a hand on his shoulder. Pulling him back and away, Rafe felt blind as the water kept his eyes closed and he coughed out the wetness.

“What the fuck are you  _ doing _ ?” It was Samuel. His hand felt good on his wet shoulder and there was something warm and dry touching his face, wiping the water away. When Rafe finally was able to open his eyes and look up at him, he realized it was the hand towel from next to the sink. The look on Sam’s face made Rafe feel guilty. He hated feeling guilty. 

“Are you okay?” Sam was crouching down now, knees cracking as he came more to eye level. The towel was still in his hands, wiping away the water and slicking back the mousy brown hair on Rafe’s head away from his eyes. “Jesus christ, you gave me a fuckin’ heart attack.”

“I --” Rafe couldn’t think of what to say. What exactly could he say? That he had a terror and needed a moment of intimacy with the bathroom sink? “I was hot.”

“You were . . .  _ hot _ ?” There was no humor in Sam’s voice, finally dropping the towel into Rafe’s lap and cupping either side of his face. Rafe made no move to remove him. Instead, he more or less pressed into the touch. That feeling of ease was back, but this time it wasn’t because he was choking Samuel. It was because Samuel was here, alive, and comforting him. 

“I couldn’t sleep.” It wasn’t a lie, but he felt like it was. Those brown-blue eyes looked through him, Rafe realizing just exactly how tired he was. He felt drained. 

“Yuh-huh,” Samuel spoke instead of calling him out. “Well, let’s get your butt back to bed and see if we can’t change that. Do you need . . “ There was a vague gesture to the bathroom cabinet. Rafe knew what was inside. Little pills of different colors and sizes, that his new doctors had prescribed to him. Different from the cocktail his Father had kept him on over the years. These pills worked. They were healthy. They helped. But still, Rafe shook his head. 

“No,” his voice felt raw. “But I do need to brush my teeth first.”

“Why?”

“I threw up.”

“Oh.”

There was a dead tone to Sam’s voice, and he saw his brows knit. It was a sure sign that he was becoming more concerned over what had happened, but Rafe said nothing. His pride was nothing compared to what it had been two years ago, but it was still there. It was still strong enough that he turned away from him and went for his toothbrush. Sam did not leave as Rafe brushed his teeth, instead handing him the small cup that was used to rinse that Rafe could have taken to rinse his mouth earlier. Spitting the clean water into the sink, he wiped his face off with the towel and felt himself suddenly rising into the air.

Sam’s arms were around him. One behind his back and the other tucked underneath his legs. The man was always stronger than Rafe seemed to remember, despite seeing first hand how he took care of his body on a daily basis. Typically, Rafe would have protested. He would insist he put him the fuck down, that he wasn’t somoeone who was carried like this. But tonight wasn’t a typical night, and they both knew that. Maybe that was how Samuel knew it was safe enough to try the lift in the first place. His cane was left forgotten and behind as they went back to the bedroom. 

Instead of laying Rafe down on the bed first, Sam sat down before flopping backwards with Rafe on his chest. It was an awkward position, back to chest like that -- but after a moment Rafe rolled away as best he could. Sam didn’t allow him to go far, however. Strong arms keeping him against his side, one hand came up to card through wet hair. Fussing over it, the silence was back. Nothing but the tick of the clock. 

“What happened in your dream?” 

Somehow, Samuel hit the nail on the head. For a man who sometimes seemed dumber than a rock when it came to anything other than thievery and pirates -- he could be very perspective. For a moment, Rafe didn’t want to say anything. He wanted to ignore him. One of his own arms was draped across Samuel’s chest, palm laying flat over his heart so he could feel it through shirt and skin. 

“I killed you,” he murmured. His voice was barely above a whisper, but still -- it hitched. There was a low hum that Rafe more _ felt _ than heard. Rumbling low in his chest, Rafe closed his eyes and pressed closer into his warmth. It didn’t seem like it alarmed him too much, and that was more than likely due to the fact that this wasn’t the first time he had made mention of killing the older Drake in a dream. 

“Well,” Sam’s arm tightened around him. Pulling him closer. “No reason to try and drown yourself, y’know.”

“I wasn’t -- I was hot, Samuel, I already said that. Pay attention.” Rafe still felt hot, but he didn’t feel a need to mention it. He knew the feeling of his wet shirt and clammy skin more than likely gave note to that. But Samuel wasn’t pushing him away, he was pulling him closer. 

“You know it was just a dream,” it sounded soft and gentle. As if he knew it wouldn’t help, but he was trying to say something to help regardless. Rafe appreciated it, he really did. Even though, no, it didn’t really help -- he did appreciate that Samuel was trying. It was something he was slowly getting better at.  _ Appreciating _ Samuel. 

“I know.” Rafe’s voice sounded hollow. Neither of them were perfect. Samuel could be lazy, loud, rude and selfish. Rafe could be prideful, angry, selfish and over critical. But, he liked to think that they world well together.  _ Now _ that is. Make no mention of before. Of the fights, physical and verbal, that he knew still caused Sam to wake up in a cold sweat at night as well. 

They laid there together in silence for a moment. He knew that Sam’s legs must be off the bed since Rafe’s lone foot was. He wiggled his remaining toes for a moment before sitting up on his elbow and looking down at Sam. It caused the older man to open his eyes and look curiously over at Rafe, as if he was wondering exactly what his next move might be. Rafe wondered the same thing. 

He lifted his hand up, and placed his fingertips against the front of Sam’s neck. Just a light touch, barely any pressure. No marks. Nothing from the dream, since it was just a dream, but the assurance felt good. But it was what Sam did that made his breathing hitch. He tilted his chin up, presenting his neck to him -- giving him more room. Giving himself over to him.

“Do you want to go fishing tomorrow?” Sam asked, and Rafe felt his voice through his neck. He wasn’t looking at his eyes, instead staring at his lips. 

“You hate fishing,” Rafe murmured -- the normal conversation feeling good, a good break from the tense air in the room. 

“You like it. I only hate it when you catch more than me,” he chuckled -- and once again, Rafe felt it. He lifted his hand away from his neck in order to come up and brush against his lips, feeling the hot puffs of air coming from inside him. Proof that he was still alive. Proof that he was here. Rafe didn’t get a chance to say anything back because Sam pressed a soft kiss against the pads of his fingers. He felt his stomach tighten, but luckily -- it wasn’t a warning that he was going to throw up over all his partners chest.

Instead, he leaned down and replaced his fingers with his lips. Eyes closed, brows knitted tightly -- it was a quick closed mouth kiss. But Sam met it with everything he had, hand coming up to hold the buzzed back of Rafe’s head. Keeping him there, against his mouth. Rafe let out a light noise, and tilted his head slightly -- kissing back as his lips parted. It wasn’t the kiss he was hunting for, but it was a connection to Samuel and that was all he needed right now. Anything to keep the demons away. 

He pulled away when he felt the touch of Sam’s tongue against his bottom lip, a light breathy laugh leaving him.

“You taste minty,” Sam all but purred and Rafe pinched his chin. 

“Better than vomit.”

“Mm, much better.”

Hazel eyes met and Rafe cupped Samuel’s face. He felt a surge of -- something. Rafe still wasn’t exactly good with his feelings, neither of them were. And while love was almost unspoken between them, it was still present in moments together like this. In the house they had built together. 

“I’m not goin’ anywhere, Rafe.” 

“I know.” He knew it well because if Samuel was to, he’d hunt him down. He wasn’t planning on letting him go again. That sweet reassurance preyed on Rafe’s fear that one day he’d wake up to an empty bed.  _ Again _ . 

“You should try to get some sleep,” the Drake’s hand came up in order to brush Rafe’s hair back once more, gently cupping his cheek on the back pedal. Rafe nodded, though they both knew that it was unlikely that he’d actually get any. Maybe laying here with Samuel, it could be possible to catch an hour in the early mornings. 

Relaxing back down into the bed, he pressed his face against Sam’s chest -- eyes closing again. Rafe, once again, felt himself struck with the sudden urge and he found Samuel’s hand and laced their fingers.

“Samuel,” his voice was thick. The urge to remind him that he loved him. Something he seemed only able to say when he was either lost in pleasure or half asleep. It choked in his throat, but the hand entwined with his knew what he wanted to say and squeezed in assurance. 

“I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please make sure you're staying safe!!! Wear a mask when you go outside, use gloves responsibly, and make sure above all you're washing your hands!!! Stay hydrated.


End file.
